


Soft Fur

by Rianne



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Autism, Autistic Carlos, Autistic Character, Cecil is Mostly Human, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 01:09:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1725641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rianne/pseuds/Rianne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Carlos comes home from his lab, there's a cat in his living room and Cecil is nowhere to be seen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soft Fur

**Author's Note:**

> This work is based on the following headcanon, which I found on the tumblr cecilosheadcanons: "Cecil, at certain times of the month, becomes a shapeshifter and can morph into any type of animal he wants. However, he almost always chooses a cat so he can communicate with Khoshekh. Carlos doesn't know about that little fact though, and simply finds a purple eyed cat sitting in the middle of their living room meowing up a storm at black Khoshekh. Instead of wondering however, Carlos simply picks him up, curls up on the couch, and falls asleep, and waking up with Cecil sleeping on his chest."
> 
> It is also a character study for my own headcanon of autistic Carlos (who is also ace, but that doesn't come up in this fic). It is also mostly unbetaed, because I typed it up really fast on a Sunday afternoon.

When Carlos comes home from the lab, there’s a purple-eyed cat in his living room. 

He’s home early, which is unusual. He rarely even manages to tear himself away from his experiments after the clock strikes five, let alone before. Today, however, he’s had a bit of a breakthrough with Ellen, his team’s geologist. They analysed the readings from a number of non-existent earthquakes (ranging from 6.9 to 9.2 on the Richter scale) and discovered that they coincided with reported teleportations of Night Vale’s invisible clock tower. Carlos isn’t sure what it means, but it probably means something. That, these days, can definitely be considered a breakthrough.

So he and Ellen decided to take the last hour of the day off. She offered him drinks and pizza at Rico’s, but Carlos declined. A whole day of constant cooperation is trying enough without another social event afterwards. Instead, he went home to the apartment he shared with Cecil. 

Cecil is usually home before him, but now the house is empty except for Khoshekh and the purple-eyed visitor. Today’s broadcast wasn’t particularly alarming, so Carlos doesn’t worry about Cecil’s absence. Well, he worries a little. It’s hard not to worry in a town like Night Vale. 

He turns his attention to the cat. When he entered the house, it was meowing loudly. Now that he’s in the living room, it’s fallen silent, staring up at him with large, purple eyes. Khoshekh is in the corner, also looking warily at Carlos. 

“Hey buddy,” he says to the newcomer. “Who are you?”

The cat doesn’t respond, because it’s a cat. Carlos smiles. He likes cats. Contrary to what Cecil believes, he’s not allergic to cats. He’s allergic to Khoshekh, who is most definitely not a cat. Khoshekh has venom sacks, for crying out loud! And spine ridges, which Carlos has never seen on a mammal. He may not be a biologist (he’s a scientist; he studies science), but he knows that’s not normal. 

Admittedly, the rest of Khoshekh’s body looks feline, excluding the rattle at the end of his tail. That hasn’t stopped Carlos from having violent sneezing attacks and itchy skin. The Cleratin helps, though, so he tolerates Khoskekh’s presence for Cecil’s sake. Privately, he can’t wait until Khoshekh is healed enough to go back to his hover-spot in the men’s bathroom at the radio station.

However, this new cat is definitely a cat. No weird anatomy, no visible venom. Carlos probably isn’t allergic to this one. He had a cat when he was younger, and that was never a problem. So he kneels down and holds out a hand. To his surprise, the cat doesn’t hesitate; it immediately walks forward and sniffs his fingers. Then it rubs up against his knee. 

“Hey buddy,” he says again, brushing his fingers along its head. The cat immediately lets out a loud purr.

Carlos feels a smile spread across his face. He stands up and shrugs off his lab coat – best not get cat hairs all over it, in case one of his experiments is allergic to cats. Then he leans down, picks up the cat, and carries it over to the sofa. Khoshekh, deprived of his playmate, goes to sulk in the corner.

He likes pets, because they’re so much easier to deal with than people. They don’t catch onto his social gaffes, they’re never disappointed when he messes up. They just want to be fed and watered and stroked. Touching them also doesn’t lead to sensory overload. Sometimes Cecil wants to cuddle with Carlos but it’s too much, and then he has to say no and watch the disappointment wash over Cecil’s face, so badly hidden that even Carlos can see it. It’s not that Cecil doesn’t understand – he’s been wonderful, so supportive Carlos can hardly believe it. He’s just disappointed, because he wants to touch Carlos but can’t, and those moments make Carlos feel even worse than he already does when his skin tingles from all the touches of that day.

He wonders why that doesn’t happen when he touches animals. Maybe it’s because there’s not as much social stimuli to go with the sensations. Sometimes, Carlos regrets that he didn’t major in psychology. Maybe he would’ve understood his autism better. But he thinks wanting to understand yourself is a bad reason to do a major, and anyway he’s always been more interested in chemistry and physics. 

When he reaches the sofa, he spends a minute trying to arrange the throw pillows without dropping the cat. Finally, he stretches out on the sofa and places the cat on his belly. It peers into his face for a moment before lying down and pulling its paws under its body. 

Carlos takes off his glasses and puts them on the coffee table. Then he begins stroking the cat, and it purrs in response. Before long, it uncurls its body and stretches out, head on Carlos’ shoulder and body draped over his chest and stomach. He smiles and watches the cat as it’s gently carried up and down by the movement of his breathing. 

“I hope you’re still around by the time Cecil gets home,” he tells the cat as a yawn overtakes him. “Because he’s bound to love you.”

The cat rubs its head against him. It’s soothing and perfect, and before he knows it, Carlos is asleep.

\--

He wakes because there’s something heavy on his chest. Because he’s sleepy and fuzzy, it takes him a long time to remember where he is and how he got there, but eventually he remembers the grey cat with the purple eyes and how he fell asleep with it on his chest. It’s definitely not there now, though. Now, he has a mouthful of black hair and a heavy human body draped across him. How did he not wake up when Cecil came home? And why didn’t Cecil wake him?

Either way, it’s getting a bit uncomfortable to carry eighty kilos on his chest. “Cece?” he says quietly, gently squeezing Cecil’s upper arm. “Cecil, wake up, you’re crushing me.”

“Hmm?” Cecil lifts his head, bleary-eyed, and looks at him.

“You’re on top of me,” Carlos tells him. “And you’re heavy.”

“Oh!” Understanding dawns on Cecil’s face, and he jerks away from Carlos. While their bed has enough space to allow that kind of manoeuvre, the sofa certainly doesn’t. Cecil tips over the edge and crashes to the floor with a muffled, “Oomph.”

“Are you okay?” Carlos asks, frantic, immediately chastising himself for not waking Cecil more gently. He should’ve known this might happen…

“I’m fine,” Cecil says, sitting up. To Carlos’ surprise, he’s blushing. Is he embarrassed about something?

“What time is it? When did you get home?” Carlos asks. He sits up and grabs his glasses from the coffee table, and the world soon shifts into focus. 

“I don’t know,” Cecil admits, looking out the window where the sun is nearing the horizon. “It’s probably just after six,” he says. 

“Yeah,” Carlos agrees, still a bit drowsy from his impromptu nap. Only then does he remember that he didn’t go to sleep alone. He looks around, but the mystery cat is nowhere to be seen. He’ll ask Cecil about it, but first things first. “What time did you get here?”

“Um,” Cecil hedges, moving up to join Carlos on the couch. He rubs the back of his neck, and Carlos concludes that there is definitely something Cecil is embarrassed about. He doesn’t have a clue what it could be, though, so he waits. “At about three,” Cecil finally says.

“But you weren’t here when I got home,” Carlos says. “There was just Khoskekh and this purple-eyed cat.”

Cecil gives him a look, the one that Carlos has privately termed the ‘mountain look’ because Cecil gives it every time Carlos mentions mountains. The look means he’s missing something that Cecil thinks it’s obvious. “Carlos. It’s full moon,” Cecil says. 

That doesn’t mean anything to him. “So?” he says. “What does that have to do with what time you came home?”

Cecil doesn’t respond. He now looks somewhat exasperated as well as awkward, but Carlos doesn’t let it get to him. He would have, the first few months he was here. Since then he’s learned to distinguish between normal social awkwardness (for which Carlos still constantly feels guilty) and social awkwardness brought on by Night Vale absurdities. He knows he can’t help the last one. His team of scientists have all admitted it happens to them all the time, too.

He looks at Cecil’s cheeks, which are still red. “Sorry, Cece,” he says, “but you’re going to have to spell this one out for me, because I have no idea what you’re implying.”

“Well it’s very impolite to talk about it,” Cecil huffs. That does get to Carlos. He can’t count how often he was called impolite when he was younger, just because he didn’t know how to behave. Cecil sees his panic and backtracks at once. “But you can’t help it, I suppose, as an outsider,” he says. “I’m one of Night Vale’s eighteen percent of residents who can shapeshift during the full moon,” he admits in a low voice.

Carlos can’t help it: he gapes at Cecil, who looks away. “You’re what now?” he asks after a moment. “Wait. Wait. You’re the cat?”

Cecil twists and untwists his fingers, but doesn’t respond. Carlos realises he’s being impolite again and racks his brain for a different question. “Why don’t I know about this?”

That question probably wasn’t any better, but Cecil answers it anyway. “I thought you did know! I thought you were just being a gentleman and not mentioning it,” he says. He still looks affronted that Carlos is continuing the conversation, but suddenly he starts to look worried. “You don’t mind, do you? Are shapeshifters marginalised outside of Night Vale?”

That startles a laugh out of Carlos. “Cecil. Outside of Night Vale, there’s no such thing.” Cecil still looks worried, so Carlos grabs his hand. “It’s fine. It’s nice. I… I liked the cat, I mean I liked you when you were the cat. It’ll be nice to have a cat in the house sometime.”

“We have Khoshekh,” Cecil reminds him.

“Khoshekh isn’t a cat,” Carlos says, which earns him another mountain look. “Well, anyway, you made a much nicer cat, Cecil,” he continues. 

“I did?” Cecil says, smiling.

“Absolutely,” Carlos says. “And, and… it’s easier to cuddle. Because of, you know.” He waves his hands around, still unaccustomed to directly addressing his sensory issues even after twenty years of knowing what they are.

Cecil smiles at him. “Good to know,” he says. “Dinner?”

\--

They don’t mention it again. A month later Carlos has all but forgotten that his boyfriend is a shapeshifter – in a way, the entire thing pales in comparison to Night Vale’s other oddities. He remembers, however, when he comes home from work after a terrible day and finds a grey cat with purple eyes sitting on the couch, staring up at him. 

He’s exhausted. Four experiments went up in flames that day, some of them quite literally. Even so, he smiles at the cat. “Hey Cece,” he mutters. “I’m going to have a nap. Come with?”

It occurs to him that Cecil may not be able to understand him. To be honest, he’s not sure how this whole shapeshifting thing works. Maybe he should put one of his biologists on it, but then… Stop thinking about work, he reminds himself. Instead he just picks Cecil up – he didn’t mind last time – and heads straight for their bedroom. He takes off his shoes and his coat and tumbles onto his bed, Cecil-the-cat in his arms. He hugs Cecil close to his chest, stroking his fur, and drifts off to the sound of Cecil’s purring.


End file.
